THE dead! ah, the dead! how falls their Memory in mournful cadence on the soul, Touching with more tender plaint the heart's Deep chords, than any other word found In our tongue. The dead! the cherished Dead! Who has not felt the trembling touch And lacerating pang thrill every sense, At the mere mention of the long lost dead! Their very names are sacred to our hearts, And all their virtues, by their loss more dear, Come floating back on memory's silvery beams, And cluster round us in a hallowed zone, Converting all our feelings into love, And holy sympathy and ardent prayer. Oh, I have thought those visions of the dead,— Those shrouded images of buried love,— By a strange power mysterious work hath wrought, In the conversion of our sinful minds. God works in many ways upon our hearts; And may we not suppose that this is one, Nor least of all the hidden plans of grace, Vouchsafed to win our souls, long prodigal, Back to the smiling presence of his love?
